An Eternal Flame
by Paimpont
Summary: "Being dead is always more difficult in the spring..." Rare slash pairing Cuthbert Binns/Bertram Aubrey.


**~An Eternal Flame~**

**...**

**Summary: **"Being dead is always more difficult in the spring..." Rare slash pairing Cuthbert Binns/Bertram Aubrey.

**Rating: T **for very mild slash

**Author's Note: **This story is written for **Quintessential Dreams**' **Grab a Song, Write A Story** competition. My assigned pairing is Cuthbert Binns and Bertram Aubrey, and my assigned song is "An Eternal Flame" by the Bangles.

...

Being dead is always more difficult in the spring. Sometimes, in the gossamer blue-white light of spring, a strange melancholy sorrow comes over me, and my heart is filled with longing for something that I cannot name.

There is a whisper of roses in the air now, a delicate fragrance that tears at the hearts of the living and the dead alike. I can feel it even here, in the dusty classroom where a ghost teaches the living about the past.

I look out over the sea of young faces in front of me, and I try to feel annoyed, as a teacher should, that they are so openly ignoring my lesson. The sixth year students are sleeping, daydreaming, or drawing flowers and faces and initials of secret loves in the margins of their books. Nobody is listening to a word I am saying. I try to feel outraged, but it is difficult to feel outraged at the young in spring. For the bright sunshine slants through the heavy old windowpanes, and their youth and the shimmering white light of spring make poetry of their faces.

How lovely the living are in spring! I try to cast young Sirius Black a stern gaze when I see him trying to hex poor Bertie Aubrey again, but the words catch in my throat. For Sirius' dark curls are shining cascades of black water in the white-gold light, and his mischievous eyes are brighter than stars. I want to frown at James Potter, who is passing notes to Lily Evans again, but my frown turns to a smile. For how can any living man not fall in love with Lily's flaming hair and luminous skin? Oh, how can I fault you, James, for pushing aside your book and pausing to admire an angel?

They are all distracted, terribly distracted. How can they not be, when spring and life and the scent of flowers are all around them? I try to remember if spring was this maddening when I was alive, but I cannot recall. I spent my living years among books, reading about the lives of the dead. What a waste! I never noticed the wild scent of blooming hawthorn in the spring, or the beauty of the faces around me. I smile to myself now as Lily and James exchange a secret glance, heavy with meaning. But I keep talking, as I always do, even if my words feel dry and dead in my mouth. I have repeated this lesson so often that I do not need to pay any more attention to it than they do, these lovely delinquents who are drunk on spring and life.

_If I were alive and young, _I muse to myself, _I wonder whose initials I would draw, secretly, in the margins of _my_ books. Perhaps I would have loved Marlene for the gold of her hair, or Lily for the green of her eyes. Or perhaps I would have loved a boy; I never gave enough thought to love when I was alive to know. Perhaps I would have loved Sirius for the glitter in his eyes, or James for his laugher... _

But then my glance falls on Bertie, and I know in my heart that I would have loved him the best. For his eyes are such a vivid dark blue that anyone who sees them must think of summer days and distant seas. He is a pale, slight boy, and no one seems to take much notice of him. No one except for James and Sirius, of course, when they are looking for a victim who will laugh at their pranks afterwards rather than report them. "Old Bertie is a good sport," they mutter approvingly and carry on with their half-amusing, half-cruel jokes.

That is all anyone ever says about Bertie. _He's a good sport._ How is it possible that he can pass so unnoticed among the living? Why don't the girls look at him and notice the way his brown hair falls down over his eyes sometimes? If I were alive, I would try to catch his eye...

I feel the dark and ancient sorrow of the dead welling in my heart as I gaze at him. I have long been content to be among the ghosts that linger in the shadows of this castle, but now I suddenly long to be among the living. Sometimes I wonder to myself what I would do if I were still alive on spring evenings. Perhaps I would take out my dusty history books and write _his_ initials in them, in bright blue ink, right next to the faded names of dead wizards and goblins.

History is meaningless. Who cares who lived and died in ages past, or what battles were fought over trivial matters long ago? If I had history to write all over again, I would begin by writing about the living and about the things that matter the most. I would write about the sunlight shafting through the tall oak trees, dappling the grass in gold and green, and the sweet scent of the wild berberis down by the lake, and about the sea-color of Bertie's eyes.

One day, as I linger in the empty classroom, long after the students have dashed out to their freedom, Bertie pushes the door open. I stare at him for a moment, startled by his sudden appearance.

"Have you left anything behind, Mr. Aubrey?" My voice comes out as a whisper, but he doesn't seem to notice.

He smiles at me ever so slightly, and the sudden lopsided smile tugs strangely at my heart. "Left anything-? Oh, no professor. I'm just... hiding."

"From Mr. Black and Mr. Potter?" I ask gently. "Are they after you again?"

"What?" He looks at me in wonder. "Fancy _you_ noticing that... Oh, I know it's all in good sport, of course. But it's getting a little tirsome. Last week, they enlarged my head, and it was dreadfully uncomfortable. Do you mind if I hide in here for a while?"

"What? Oh, plase do." I feel my insubstantial form flutter ever so slightly. "I would be delighted to have your company for a little while. If Mr. Potter and Mr. Black come by, you can hide behind the curtains. I will tell them that I haven't seen you all afternoon."

"Really?" Bertie breaks into a wide smile. "You would do that? That's frightfully decent of you, Professor."

"Any time, Mr. Aubrey," I whisper.

But James and Sirius do not come; perhaps they have become distracted by something and forgotten all about their pursuit of Bertie.

"Perhaps you should report them to the headmaster, Mr. Aubrey," I say gently. "If you wish them to stop playing pranks on you."

Bertie frowns at the suggestion. "Oh, no Professor, I couldn't do _that. _I don't want to be a bad sport. They are not bad chaps, really, James and Sirius. They are just full of high spirits. You have been here for a long time, haven't you? You must have known others like them..."

I smile a little then. "Why yes, I do recall Fabian and Gideon Prewett casting a spell on me once that made me speak in limericks for a week. But that was a _long_ time ago."

"Really?" Bertie laughs a little, and his eyes sparkle. "Did you report them?"

I shake my head slowly. "No, I didn't. Perhaps I should have, but I admired them so tremendously, you see, in spite of all their bizarre pranks..."

"It sounds like you were a lot like me, Professor." Bertie's earnest blue eyes are fixed on my face.

"Like you?" I smile back at Bertie. "No, I don't think so, Mr. Aubrey. I was a rather plain and ordinary boy, you see, whereas you..." I break off. I want to tell him that he is beautiful and extraordinary, but that would be highly inappropriate. So I just whisper: "Just let me know if you ever need my help, Bertie."

He gazes at me in wonder. Too late I realize that I used his first name. He must have found that terribly odd. But he merely smiles at me and whispers shyly, before slipping out of the classroom: "Thanks, Professor. You are a good sort..."

...

Bertie falls ill that spring. He spends week after week in the infirmary, but he does not seem to get better. An expression of great concern crosses Madam Derwent's face whenever she looks at him. I come and see him every evening, and he always lights up at the sight of me. How curious, that he has so few other visitors! He must be a rather lonely boy. His classmates come in the beginning, of course, and they bring him flowers and books. But the spring air is sweet outside, and Bertie remains ill for so long that they soon begin to forget all about him in their preoccupation with the beautiful weather and newfound love and other such pressing matters.

But I come, evening after evening, and I linger by his sickbed.

"Don't talk to him about school work, Professor," Madam Derwent always admonishes before leaving us.

"I won't," I assure her, but she just shakes her head. "Oh, I know you, Professor," she laughs. "You will be telling him all about the Goblin Rebellions, won't you?"

But she does not know me, and we do not speak of goblins or rebellions. In fact, I do not speak much at all. I prefer to linger about him for hours and listen to Bertie talk about the things that are on his mind. He speaks of his home, a little cottage by the sea, and of his dead mother and his stern father and his new stepmother. He likes and admires his pretty stepmother, although he is desperately shy of her.

Oh, he talks of many things, each more wonderful and precious to me than the next. Soon, he speaks to me as if we were old friends, and I feel happier than I ever did when I was living. I make him describe the way the sea looks from his bedroom window at home, the changing colors of the water in different sorts of weather, the apple trees in his garden, the old toys on his shelf, his collection of sea shells...

"I have never seen the sea," I whisper. "But I can almost see it now, when you speak of it..."

Sometimes his fever flares up again, and he sleeps listlessly until the fever wears off. Sometimes I brush my hand over his forehead then, and my touch always seems to bring him some comfort, even in his fevered state. And I reach out and trace his flushed face with my finger, again and again. How terribly odd - it feels as if there is a strange fever raging through my limbs as well, a flame that burns brighter and brighter as I gaze at his face, pale aganst his pillow.

"Get well soon, Bertie," I whisper, but I know in my heart that he won't.

One evening, as the sun is sinking in gold at the horizon and the sky is darkenening to a deep violet outside the window, Bertie opens his eyes and gazes at me one last time.

"You are here with me..." His voice is hoarse. Then a faint smile, infinitely beautiful, passes over his fever-flushed face. "I like that you are here..." There is something so odd and so lovely in his expression, an strange tenderness and an indescribable sadness all at once.

And then he closes his eyes, and they don't open ever again.

A fragrance of hawthorn and wild apple blossoms drifts in through the open window, and I feel like weeping. But the dead have no tears, only a curious dark aching of the soul.

I linger silently by his bedside until they come in and take him away. There are arrangements to be made, and his family must be contacted. How unreasonable, I think to myself, that he should be given to _them, _who cared so little for him when he was alive! I drift out through the open window and hover there for the rest of the night, alone with the stars. A wild grief tears at my soul, and for a moment I wonder if ghosts can die.

Slowly, ever so slowly, it grows lighter out, and the outline of the castle becomes visible against the silver ribbon of morning in the east. I hear a slight whisper behind me then, and I turn around, startled. An evanescent form hovers in the air next to me in the shimmering light of early morning. It takes me a moment to realize that it is _him. _

He is different now, lighter and less subsantial, but he is Bertie all the same, and his eyes are still as blue.

"Bertie?" I whisper his name in wonder. "What are you doing here? You shouldn't linger here, my dear - you should move on."

"Move on to what?" he asks quietly.

"To.. to whatever wonders lie beyond..." I can hear the trembling in my own voice.

He considers this for a moment, but then he shakes his head. "I think I would rather stay here with you. Besides, if I were to leave, who would tell you stories about the sea?"

And he smiles at me and reaches for my hand. "How odd," he breathes. "I can feel you now. I never could before. When you brushed my forehead when the fever was raging, I could only sense you as a whisper of chill against my skin. But now I can_ feel _you. Your hand is real in mine."

"That's because we are of the same substance now," I whisper. "We are both ghosts, Bertie, fleeting beings made up of memories and longing..."

"What is it that you long for, then?" he asks quietly. "There is a flame burning in your soul, I can sense it now."

"I long for many things." I glance at him hesitantly. "For the sea, and for being alive again, and for a companion..."

His insubstantial form flutters in the morning air, and he tugs at my hand. "You long for a companion? Why, so do I. Perhaps that is why I am still here. Come with me then!" There is laughter in his blue eyes still. "Come with me down to the lake, and I will sit with you and tell you stories of the sea... For ever and ever."

And his lips brush against my face, and his breath is as warm against my skin as the spring wind itself.


End file.
